How you can tell you're old #472...you say shit like "how is it already (insert unit of time)?
How is it already April 9? March was like a m**f** whirlwind. I think. I already don't even remember it. Basically, I remember yesterday, and to some extent can use that to extrapolate what's been happening for the past month.
Yesterday was April 8. My mom got on a plane and flew back to Indiana. It's been really nice to have her in town. You also know you're old when your parents are even older so you want to spend as much time with them as you can (without going overboard because that's morbid). I've been going over to her house about once a week, which might not sound like much, but is roughly twice as often as I see my sister (who lives in town) and six times as often as I see almost any single friend who isn't involved in a writing endeavor. Mostly I was going on Fridays after work, and we would put together some dinner, talk and watch a movie, or if the kids were staying over maybe play some Monopoly.
Also April 8 is the day Paul and I got married. In celebration of our anniversary he took yesterday off from work, and I switched up my hours and skipped writing, then, with our free time together, we went to Target, cleaned the house, had some expensive (and good) sushi, then watched TV while wearing teeth-whitening agents (bought at Target). Yep, that's how we roll. In March I also spent some time with Paul, mostly late at night, or preparing for taxes. We've both been spending extra time with respective writing partners on projects, which has decreased our available hours, so yesterday, while it might seem mundane, was a treat.
At work, April 8 was the last day of "prospective student open house." Yay for that. Nothing makes time fly by like event planning without quite enough time, and open house is one of the bigger events--a three-day logistical extravaganza of hosting a dozen or so potential students. My new co-worker handled almost all of the individual schedules and travel reimbursements and I ordered most of the food and we both tried to work our everyday duties in around the edges.
This year, April 8 fell on a Wednesday, which is generally the night that I go to my directing class, but serendipitously (for the anniversary) this week is community college spring break so class didn't meet. But for much of February and March, I have been leaving work at the stroke of five and taking two trains to class, which is officially scheduled to last from 6pm to 10pm but thankfully always runs shorter. With the 2-train+car commute home it still manages to eat an evening.
And yesterday, April 8 was the last day before today, April 9, which is when my writing partner (Janice) should receive the last of our notes on our script, so that we can spend the weekend revising and hopefully improving our application for the Film Independent Lab which is due on Monday. I'm trying to mentally gear up for a marathon writing weekend. Switching back-and-forth between two scripts for various spring deadlines, there have been a few such weekends lately, and also a couple "vacation" days spent trying reach the finish line with drafts we can feel good about in hand.
And that, I deduce, is where March has gone.
Showing posts with label Family. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Family. Show all posts
Thursday, April 09, 2015
Friday, August 08, 2014
My Brother is Leaving
My brother is leaving LA and moving (back) to Chicago. I'm happy for him, because it feel like a change, and it feels he's been looking for a change, but I'm also sad because he will be gone. Although we are certainly different in many ways, in other ways, of my siblings, we have the most in common in terms of sensibility, and so in some ways he is the closest person I have to myself.
If they are not sudden, partings have a chronology. At first one in aware of the upcoming parting but it is far away. You will see the person a dozen more times: the thrumming drum of the parting is muffled by all the times that stand between any of those times and the last time. A dozen times becomes several times, several times become a couple of times... and finally it is the last time--the time after which the person will get in a car or on a plane, or some metaphorical boat to the underworld and go someplace different and far away.
And the last time, the awareness of it being the last time floats and lands, floats and lands through your time together. You think "this is the last time," and then for a few moments you forget it is the last time, and then you remember and thing, "this is the last time."
In thinking of this and being sad, I am also being over-dramatic, because Chicago is hardly the ends of the earth my brother and I will certainly see each other a few times a year. It's not like saying goodbye to our friends in Australia almost a decade ago, or like saying goodbye to my father the last time before he died. But I think maybe all the big goodbyes in my life have sensitized me to the smaller ones as well, like stubbing the toe that's been broken. If I let myself remember, the small goodbyes are just rehearsals for the biggest goodbyes. In every case, with no exceptions, the big goodbye is out there, a gong echoing and reverberating through the years of padding between then and now, saying "I am here."
Yeah--that's weird metaphor juxtaposed with other questionable metaphor, but hey, I'm writing sad--because I'll see my brother on Sunday, and it will be the last time I see my brother before he moves away.
If they are not sudden, partings have a chronology. At first one in aware of the upcoming parting but it is far away. You will see the person a dozen more times: the thrumming drum of the parting is muffled by all the times that stand between any of those times and the last time. A dozen times becomes several times, several times become a couple of times... and finally it is the last time--the time after which the person will get in a car or on a plane, or some metaphorical boat to the underworld and go someplace different and far away.
And the last time, the awareness of it being the last time floats and lands, floats and lands through your time together. You think "this is the last time," and then for a few moments you forget it is the last time, and then you remember and thing, "this is the last time."
In thinking of this and being sad, I am also being over-dramatic, because Chicago is hardly the ends of the earth my brother and I will certainly see each other a few times a year. It's not like saying goodbye to our friends in Australia almost a decade ago, or like saying goodbye to my father the last time before he died. But I think maybe all the big goodbyes in my life have sensitized me to the smaller ones as well, like stubbing the toe that's been broken. If I let myself remember, the small goodbyes are just rehearsals for the biggest goodbyes. In every case, with no exceptions, the big goodbye is out there, a gong echoing and reverberating through the years of padding between then and now, saying "I am here."
Yeah--that's weird metaphor juxtaposed with other questionable metaphor, but hey, I'm writing sad--because I'll see my brother on Sunday, and it will be the last time I see my brother before he moves away.
Tuesday, June 17, 2014
After Life
Someone I know from my place of work died recently. He'd had an
interesting life: He'd served in the military then done well in
academia. He married four times and had a number of children. As the
person who processed his expense reports, I can say that in very recent
years he spent months at a time in England and Italy, and that he ate
well--like I imagine Henry the 8th would have dined if he'd had a per
diem. His receipts reported spirits with every meal, and things like
Shepherds Pie and quail.
For almost a year, the gentleman was ill and seldom visited our offices. The few times he came in, he seemed mostly peeved at his condition, which was revealing itself to be one with finite outcome. Upon his death, it has been his second wife, with the help of two various sons who has emerged to handle his large library, items in his office and the number of bills that he received to his work mailbox. When the mail began to transition and be address to "Executor of the Estate," I called to confirm that this was she. This was when she revealed to me that there was, as of yet, no formal executor--because there was no will!
I found this both surprising, and I guess, not. On one hand, he had fair warning. On the other, maybe he figured that after he was gone, it didn't really matter. Maybe he'd had conversations and things were pretty much worked out in ways one can't see from a distance.
But as the person opening doors, filing paperwork and procuring boxes for family members trying to work their way through the rooms full of books, papers, thoughts and ongoing business that one man accrues in a life, I could only be struck by how little anyone seemed to be prepared for this eventuality. And really, the choice not to make a will, even given a good six month lead time, seems somewhat self-involved and presuming--qualities some might have discerned in him even before his death.
My father had a will, but it has still taken my mother years to go through the myriad of things left behind. She continues to go through things, purging and storing and making decisions largely, I think, so that we--their children--won't have to. Although it is hopefully decade away still, she is putting thought into things so that her possession and affairs will be as easily dealt with as possible. Basically she is the opposite of presuming when it comes to such matters.
But the other night as I was thinking about this, I thought: What about my end of the bargain? An obituary seems the very least one could do in such a situation, and I realized I wasn't sure what my mother's parents' names were, or even where she was born! Since I was using a Southwest voucher and making an impromptu trip to Indiana, I decided it was time to do for real something I have been promising to do for a couple of years--try to ask the questions that in the future I will wish that I had asked. And this time, instead of assuming that I could come up with some good questions, I consulted the internet, something like "How to Interview a Family Member," and of course, because it's the internet, found several articles on taking a Family History, here and here and here. A lot of the questions are similar. I ended up with a double space list of three pages, and after dinner this evening, turned on the recorder, and we had Part I of a very interesting conversation!
For almost a year, the gentleman was ill and seldom visited our offices. The few times he came in, he seemed mostly peeved at his condition, which was revealing itself to be one with finite outcome. Upon his death, it has been his second wife, with the help of two various sons who has emerged to handle his large library, items in his office and the number of bills that he received to his work mailbox. When the mail began to transition and be address to "Executor of the Estate," I called to confirm that this was she. This was when she revealed to me that there was, as of yet, no formal executor--because there was no will!
I found this both surprising, and I guess, not. On one hand, he had fair warning. On the other, maybe he figured that after he was gone, it didn't really matter. Maybe he'd had conversations and things were pretty much worked out in ways one can't see from a distance.
But as the person opening doors, filing paperwork and procuring boxes for family members trying to work their way through the rooms full of books, papers, thoughts and ongoing business that one man accrues in a life, I could only be struck by how little anyone seemed to be prepared for this eventuality. And really, the choice not to make a will, even given a good six month lead time, seems somewhat self-involved and presuming--qualities some might have discerned in him even before his death.
My father had a will, but it has still taken my mother years to go through the myriad of things left behind. She continues to go through things, purging and storing and making decisions largely, I think, so that we--their children--won't have to. Although it is hopefully decade away still, she is putting thought into things so that her possession and affairs will be as easily dealt with as possible. Basically she is the opposite of presuming when it comes to such matters.
But the other night as I was thinking about this, I thought: What about my end of the bargain? An obituary seems the very least one could do in such a situation, and I realized I wasn't sure what my mother's parents' names were, or even where she was born! Since I was using a Southwest voucher and making an impromptu trip to Indiana, I decided it was time to do for real something I have been promising to do for a couple of years--try to ask the questions that in the future I will wish that I had asked. And this time, instead of assuming that I could come up with some good questions, I consulted the internet, something like "How to Interview a Family Member," and of course, because it's the internet, found several articles on taking a Family History, here and here and here. A lot of the questions are similar. I ended up with a double space list of three pages, and after dinner this evening, turned on the recorder, and we had Part I of a very interesting conversation!
Sunday, April 13, 2014
Weekend Exceprts
SATURDAY: My mother-in-law, in town for the weekend, holds my arm as
we stand at the L-shaped buffet at her friend's new Thai noodle shop.
She wears jeans, a floppy tee-shirt and tinted glasses with white rims
studded with Swarovski crystals. Her friend, on the other side of the sneeze-guarded trays of food, has on a floor length skirt, and lots of purple.
The food in trays are aren't the familiar dishes listed on the English menu of the restaurant my husband and I usually go to next door. She suggested for me lumpy squares of pumpkin sauteed in spices and I agree. I point to a curry with basil, chicken and bamboo shoots, and when she looks hesitant, assure her I will like it.
We travel to the short side of the L, where in one tray balls and cubes of unidentified meats float in a brown broth, next to another tray of potato-sized slices of a starchy root that isn't a potato soak in a bright orange bath. What's that? I ask, intrigued, but she doesn't answer, either because she hasn't heard me, or, more likely, because she can't figure out a way to translate it.
"Or that?" I point to cut green stems drifting in what could be a familiar combination of coconut milk and red curry powder. Her friend on the other side of the counter comes over to check on us. "Is it morning glory? "Is it bok choy?"
"Not bok-choy," says the friend.
My mother-in-law, looks seriously at the whole section of offerings and says, "Not for you, I think. These not for you," and steers us toward the register.
SUNDAY: On Sunday mornings I try to counterbalance a week's worth of muscle-stiffening sitting at desks by going to a yoga class that meets at 9:45. I leave the house at 9:43 and arrive at my class at 9:55--a serious breach of etiquette at some yoga studios, but this is a gym, so nobody cares. When the class lets out at 10:45, if I see my friend Gina, we go the the little snack stand inside the gym and order two fresh juices made of mixed veggies, and drink them at one of the little cafe tables along the wall with a partial view of child care area where toddlers play with colored balls, push wheeled objects, and occasionally shove into each other so that one falls and cries.
When my friend has not come to class, I go straight to my car, usually run some errand, like buying gas for the car or stopping at the grocery store. At 11:AM the radio announcer introduces the Moth Radio Hour, a collection of real people tell five-to-ten minute stories from their own lives. This morning I emerge from the Vons in time to hear a woman with a Sarah Silverman voice tell about the birth of her youngest sibling when she was twelve, and being told they did not share a father. "My father always took us to get ice cream to tell us bad news. If you don't want to find out that your grandpa's been diagnosed with cancer, or that your dog has been put to sleep, don't go to Cold Stone Creamery with my dad."
Arriving home with my groceries I park, but turn the key in the ignition only enough to kill the engine but not the power, so I can hear the rest of someone's story before I go upstairs to fold laundry and write stories of my own.
The food in trays are aren't the familiar dishes listed on the English menu of the restaurant my husband and I usually go to next door. She suggested for me lumpy squares of pumpkin sauteed in spices and I agree. I point to a curry with basil, chicken and bamboo shoots, and when she looks hesitant, assure her I will like it.
We travel to the short side of the L, where in one tray balls and cubes of unidentified meats float in a brown broth, next to another tray of potato-sized slices of a starchy root that isn't a potato soak in a bright orange bath. What's that? I ask, intrigued, but she doesn't answer, either because she hasn't heard me, or, more likely, because she can't figure out a way to translate it.
"Or that?" I point to cut green stems drifting in what could be a familiar combination of coconut milk and red curry powder. Her friend on the other side of the counter comes over to check on us. "Is it morning glory? "Is it bok choy?"
"Not bok-choy," says the friend.
My mother-in-law, looks seriously at the whole section of offerings and says, "Not for you, I think. These not for you," and steers us toward the register.
SUNDAY: On Sunday mornings I try to counterbalance a week's worth of muscle-stiffening sitting at desks by going to a yoga class that meets at 9:45. I leave the house at 9:43 and arrive at my class at 9:55--a serious breach of etiquette at some yoga studios, but this is a gym, so nobody cares. When the class lets out at 10:45, if I see my friend Gina, we go the the little snack stand inside the gym and order two fresh juices made of mixed veggies, and drink them at one of the little cafe tables along the wall with a partial view of child care area where toddlers play with colored balls, push wheeled objects, and occasionally shove into each other so that one falls and cries.
When my friend has not come to class, I go straight to my car, usually run some errand, like buying gas for the car or stopping at the grocery store. At 11:AM the radio announcer introduces the Moth Radio Hour, a collection of real people tell five-to-ten minute stories from their own lives. This morning I emerge from the Vons in time to hear a woman with a Sarah Silverman voice tell about the birth of her youngest sibling when she was twelve, and being told they did not share a father. "My father always took us to get ice cream to tell us bad news. If you don't want to find out that your grandpa's been diagnosed with cancer, or that your dog has been put to sleep, don't go to Cold Stone Creamery with my dad."
Arriving home with my groceries I park, but turn the key in the ignition only enough to kill the engine but not the power, so I can hear the rest of someone's story before I go upstairs to fold laundry and write stories of my own.
Thursday, May 16, 2013
The Funeral of Turtle Ted
I took a poetry class this semester and enjoyed it much more than I
thought I would. I wrote this early in the semester, when we were
studying ballads. I gave it to my super-talented little brother, who on-the-spot composed a little background music and laid down the vocals.
You can listen to The Funeral of Turtle Ted here.
You can listen to The Funeral of Turtle Ted here.
Friday, April 12, 2013
Siblings Day
Oh, Sibling Day. This was the first year that, through the power of
Facebook, I discovered it existed, and it still passed before I knew
when it was. It was yesterday. Do card companies make cards for this
holiday? Answer unknown. According to the ever-helpful Wikipedia it is about 15 years old, and though not a federal holiday like Mother's Day, has been embraced by 39 states. Go marketing!
Though I'm not a great observer of nouveau holidays (I barely manage the traditional ones), I do really appreciate my siblings. My full siblings (I also have two half siblings) are my connection to my parents, my childhood and my memories of where I'm from. And because I won't ever have biological children of my own, my sister's children are the closest thing to my genetic legacy.
I feel particularly lucky that, at this juncture, we all live in the same city, even though that city is Los Angeles where it's easy to let two to six months go by without someone in person. My sister tries to combat this with a standing dinner invite to her family's house twice a month. Even with typical conflicts we usually manage to gather other once a month, hang out, see how much taller her kids have gotten.
About a month ago I also had a really special experience hanging out with my brother (and believe me, I would not use "special" in this way if it weren't the most accurate term I could think of). I hit him up to help me record some stuff I'd written. I was going to read it myself, but after I tried it, it seemed better if the voice was male, so he did the reading as well as composing background music and producing the audio.
I seldom get to work my brother in the studio, but I love to, because it is the best time to see him deeply focused and, I think, happy. I believe that being a musician and storyteller is his truest nature. (When he was only two or three, he used to sing himself to sleep at night with long narrative songs about characters from TV shows he watched. I can remember listening, and even at the age of seven or eight noticing how music just poured from him.)
Though our training is really different, and our personalities are different, my brother--my sibling--is the closest thing I could have to a male mirror of myself. We have a similar sense of humor, which became clear as we edited the piece. We also have a similar cadence and rhythm to our speech, so hearing him read my work felt oddly familiar.
I had brought in two poems and one piece of prose. At the end of our session, I felt like only one of the pieces worked--but I was really happy with that one piece. I would post it here, but we submitted it for a contest, so I'll wait until they announce the winners first (even though I'm pretty sure it would be safe to do so. I'm fond of it, but it's a pretty beginner-level poem, so I don't think we are in big danger of winning). The whole experience made me think of how I'd like to collaborate with him more in the future.
In honor of that fact, his website is the first to be added to my "links I like." Soon to be followed by many more, but for tonight, because it's late--just my sibling's. Happy Siblings Day!
Though I'm not a great observer of nouveau holidays (I barely manage the traditional ones), I do really appreciate my siblings. My full siblings (I also have two half siblings) are my connection to my parents, my childhood and my memories of where I'm from. And because I won't ever have biological children of my own, my sister's children are the closest thing to my genetic legacy.
I feel particularly lucky that, at this juncture, we all live in the same city, even though that city is Los Angeles where it's easy to let two to six months go by without someone in person. My sister tries to combat this with a standing dinner invite to her family's house twice a month. Even with typical conflicts we usually manage to gather other once a month, hang out, see how much taller her kids have gotten.
About a month ago I also had a really special experience hanging out with my brother (and believe me, I would not use "special" in this way if it weren't the most accurate term I could think of). I hit him up to help me record some stuff I'd written. I was going to read it myself, but after I tried it, it seemed better if the voice was male, so he did the reading as well as composing background music and producing the audio.
I seldom get to work my brother in the studio, but I love to, because it is the best time to see him deeply focused and, I think, happy. I believe that being a musician and storyteller is his truest nature. (When he was only two or three, he used to sing himself to sleep at night with long narrative songs about characters from TV shows he watched. I can remember listening, and even at the age of seven or eight noticing how music just poured from him.)
Though our training is really different, and our personalities are different, my brother--my sibling--is the closest thing I could have to a male mirror of myself. We have a similar sense of humor, which became clear as we edited the piece. We also have a similar cadence and rhythm to our speech, so hearing him read my work felt oddly familiar.
I had brought in two poems and one piece of prose. At the end of our session, I felt like only one of the pieces worked--but I was really happy with that one piece. I would post it here, but we submitted it for a contest, so I'll wait until they announce the winners first (even though I'm pretty sure it would be safe to do so. I'm fond of it, but it's a pretty beginner-level poem, so I don't think we are in big danger of winning). The whole experience made me think of how I'd like to collaborate with him more in the future.
In honor of that fact, his website is the first to be added to my "links I like." Soon to be followed by many more, but for tonight, because it's late--just my sibling's. Happy Siblings Day!
Tuesday, March 12, 2013
Vegas, Baby
This past weekend, Paul and I helped move his parents from Chatsworth--about an hour away from us--to Vegas--five hours away. His father recently retired. It was mostly an economic decision.
The morning of the move, my mother-in-law stood by the kitchen window, looking out at the garden she had created and maintained for years, and she said to me, "Lucky. Lucky I am not sentimental. Because I would feel sad right now, because all of this, I made it with my own hands, and now... But I don't. I am not like that, I don't like the sad feeling, so I feel it and let it go--fast." She waved her hand to show how she pushes the sad feeling along on its way. "When its time for something to be over, it's over. That's all." She set her face and looked back at the plants she was leaving.
The morning of the move, my mother-in-law stood by the kitchen window, looking out at the garden she had created and maintained for years, and she said to me, "Lucky. Lucky I am not sentimental. Because I would feel sad right now, because all of this, I made it with my own hands, and now... But I don't. I am not like that, I don't like the sad feeling, so I feel it and let it go--fast." She waved her hand to show how she pushes the sad feeling along on its way. "When its time for something to be over, it's over. That's all." She set her face and looked back at the plants she was leaving.
Saturday, July 21, 2012
Things They Found in the Attic - Part 6
Letters to my father from novelist John Fowles.
Lyme Regis, December 24th 1967
Dear Gene,
Glad to hear that your project is now 'in the can' as the movie-makers say. I should be very happy to read it, if you have a photostat or something you can send. I've lost typescripts across the Atlantic, so if your have only one copy I'd strongly advise against risking that.
I'm a little shy of promising to help you edit it, for two reasons.
The first is that I have no sociological training and so I can't assess
its value, though I could possible help on the matter of readability.
The second is that I have a great deal of work of my own to do in the
next year and I don't think I could get involved in extensive rewriting
and redrafting for reasons of time. I have as a matter of fact just
contributed to a Harper and Row book, so that might help. I can also
get my own American publishers, (Little Brown) interested, if needs be.
I think what you have to decide (this is the key question every author without exception, from the driest academic to the vulgarest bestseller, must ask himself) is what audience you have in mind. By and large esteem from fellow academics and esteem from the general public are incompatible. you must decide which you want to go for; and having placed your bet, you mustn't chicken - for example, both want to please the ordinary reader and convince other sociologists. You just can't do both.
Best wishes for the coming year,
John Fowles
John Fowles wrote The Magus, The Collector and The French Lieutenant's Woman. Various interviews and profiles describe him as a "recluse." Other terms: "Irrascible," "Curmudgeonly" and, later, after the publication of his personal diaries "anti-semite."
But apparently, in the mid to late 60s, my father wrote him , and Fowles was receptive enough to correspond, and at one point, my father stayed the night at his house. It looks as if my father approached him regarding his PhD thesis, which was a content analysis of fiction in the Ladies Home Journal over a period of years. What connection he saw between his own work and that of Fowles...unknown.
Lyme Regis, December 24th 1967
Dear Gene,
Glad to hear that your project is now 'in the can' as the movie-makers say. I should be very happy to read it, if you have a photostat or something you can send. I've lost typescripts across the Atlantic, so if your have only one copy I'd strongly advise against risking that.
I think what you have to decide (this is the key question every author without exception, from the driest academic to the vulgarest bestseller, must ask himself) is what audience you have in mind. By and large esteem from fellow academics and esteem from the general public are incompatible. you must decide which you want to go for; and having placed your bet, you mustn't chicken - for example, both want to please the ordinary reader and convince other sociologists. You just can't do both.
Best wishes for the coming year,
John Fowles
John Fowles wrote The Magus, The Collector and The French Lieutenant's Woman. Various interviews and profiles describe him as a "recluse." Other terms: "Irrascible," "Curmudgeonly" and, later, after the publication of his personal diaries "anti-semite."
But apparently, in the mid to late 60s, my father wrote him , and Fowles was receptive enough to correspond, and at one point, my father stayed the night at his house. It looks as if my father approached him regarding his PhD thesis, which was a content analysis of fiction in the Ladies Home Journal over a period of years. What connection he saw between his own work and that of Fowles...unknown.
Sunday, July 15, 2012
Things They Found in the Attic--Part 5
This Bible and Signs of Generational Anxiety
Old bible.
Post cards, newspaper clippings and copied (or written?) poems circa early 1920s.
And this random piece of paper with the recounting of a bad dream.
I dreamed last night of drinking some poison, perhaps carbolic acid, something that looked like blood, in milk. It seems as though I did not know that is was poison for I had drunk three or four glasses before this. I poured too much in a glass of cream and passed it to others. They refused, I grasped the glass and placed the beverage to my lips, drank half a glass and found ot my horror that I had gotten hold of something poison and that it was eating my stomach out. I screamed for mamma. Death was inevitable.
I've no way of knowing who wrote this. Was it a family bible or a personal bible? The postcard is addressed to my Grandmother Ernestine--she of the many dance cards--and I guess it makes sense she would have had her own bible. My sense of it, is that she wrote this. She lived to be in her late-nineties, but by then she did have a colostomy bag. Her digestive system--like my father's and my own, was a source of concern later in life. Had it begun here? Was it a premonition of sorts--a manifestation of knowing already, maybe subconsciously, that "something was wrong?" There are no other recounting of dreams in the bible. This is the only one.
Old bible.
And this random piece of paper with the recounting of a bad dream.
I dreamed last night of drinking some poison, perhaps carbolic acid, something that looked like blood, in milk. It seems as though I did not know that is was poison for I had drunk three or four glasses before this. I poured too much in a glass of cream and passed it to others. They refused, I grasped the glass and placed the beverage to my lips, drank half a glass and found ot my horror that I had gotten hold of something poison and that it was eating my stomach out. I screamed for mamma. Death was inevitable.
I've no way of knowing who wrote this. Was it a family bible or a personal bible? The postcard is addressed to my Grandmother Ernestine--she of the many dance cards--and I guess it makes sense she would have had her own bible. My sense of it, is that she wrote this. She lived to be in her late-nineties, but by then she did have a colostomy bag. Her digestive system--like my father's and my own, was a source of concern later in life. Had it begun here? Was it a premonition of sorts--a manifestation of knowing already, maybe subconsciously, that "something was wrong?" There are no other recounting of dreams in the bible. This is the only one.
Thursday, July 12, 2012
Things They Found in the Attic - Part 4
My grandma was born in 1902-ish. She went to three colleges, Purdue
University, Indiana University and Michigan...something. She didn't
graduate from any of them. My mom thinks they just sent her off to
whichever college one of her brothers was attending. She seemed to
really enjoy going to college--she had this awesome scrapbook:
The back cover has a little coin purse:
And the inner pages are the dance list where you would sign up your partners.
It has photos and valentines and letters and programs...and dance
cards. I can't show you everything, because it would take as long to
scroll through this blog post as it took me to turn through the pages
and open a million yellow scraps of paper... But I was kind of in awe of
the dance cards.
Here is one, from the Gamma Beta Phi Mu Delta (is that a sorority,
fraternity, or one of each?) Fall Formal in 1925. It's leather.
The spider-webby stuff is a parchement-y translucent paper. That faded triangle ...
...is because the front cover has a little pocket with a mirror: 
The back cover has a little coin purse:
 |
|
Here's a sampling of others--cloth and copper and cardboard and wood.
 
Growing up, I never felt like I had much common ground with my
grandmother. We didn't see her often, and when we did it seemed she
kind of repeated herself a lot about stuff I didn't really understand,
and always wanted to play "rummy cub" with my mom. If she talked about
going to dances, as a child, and even a teenager, words like Lindy,
Charleston would have meant little. It would have sounded like "blah
blah blah" to me. I started dancing those dances after her death.
 
I would love to know about these dances--like did they have recorded
music or live bands? What were the popular songs to dance to? Was there
a frenzy of dance-card filling-out at the top of the evening? Were
there certain people she liked to dance with because they were really
good, and guys who made her cringe when she wrote their names down?
What were the politics of the dance card filling--phrases of polite
rejection, etc? Was she as happy and popular as these pages make her
seem? Or was there a story under the story? Was she supposed to be
husband hunting? How is it than none of the men on the dance cards ended
up being the one? My mother and I now realize we have no idea how my
grandmother met my grandfather, but it wasn't at college. Was he a
dancer? I know he was away a lot for business and can't imagine that
after she married, Grandma got to go to very many dances.
 |
Wednesday, July 11, 2012
Things They Found in The Attic - Part 3
Guns.
Four old rifles. The oldest one was from 1896.
My brother vaguely remembers learning how to shoot targets once in Boy Scouts. No one taught me how to shoot anything in Brownies,
I don't recall ever shooting a gun. In fact, I don't recall ever holding a real gun. But holding a heavy rifle made me wish I knew how to shoot a gun. There's a kind of power there.
My mother also does not know how to shoot a gun, so today we went to two gun shops to sell the guns. I had never been inside a gun shop before. They are very interesting places. Guys who work in gun shops say things like, "Yep, that's a 32 there. 1949. Ithica made. Someones buffed that down a bit. Barrel's not too clean is it?" They know a lot about guns. Hearing them talk made me wish I knew a lot about guns too--because it seems like each gun has a story that I don't know.
The first gun shop had this ammunition for killing zombies.
The second gun shop had these really big bullets that go in big "air to ground" guns. Some of them have rings around the tips that you turn, kind of like a shower head --except that they are timers so that your missile bullet things will explode when you want it to.
Four old rifles. The oldest one was from 1896.
My brother vaguely remembers learning how to shoot targets once in Boy Scouts. No one taught me how to shoot anything in Brownies,
I don't recall ever shooting a gun. In fact, I don't recall ever holding a real gun. But holding a heavy rifle made me wish I knew how to shoot a gun. There's a kind of power there.
My mother also does not know how to shoot a gun, so today we went to two gun shops to sell the guns. I had never been inside a gun shop before. They are very interesting places. Guys who work in gun shops say things like, "Yep, that's a 32 there. 1949. Ithica made. Someones buffed that down a bit. Barrel's not too clean is it?" They know a lot about guns. Hearing them talk made me wish I knew a lot about guns too--because it seems like each gun has a story that I don't know.
The first gun shop had this ammunition for killing zombies.
The second gun shop had these really big bullets that go in big "air to ground" guns. Some of them have rings around the tips that you turn, kind of like a shower head --except that they are timers so that your missile bullet things will explode when you want it to.
Saturday, July 07, 2012
Things They Found in the Attic
I might have mentioned once or twice, that my father's dream from a young age, was to be a comic strip artist. The story goes that when he was in his early teens, he went to New York with his father. While there they visited "the syndicate" where he spoke to someone, who looked at his work and told him to come back when he finished school, and they could get him a job. But by the time he finished school (or college, or the air force--it isn't exactly clear) the man he'd spoken to had moved on, or maybe died.
And so, instead of being a comic strip artist he went to grad school, and got married, and got his doctorate, and had kids and told them how he almost became a comic strip artist*...and for over forty years these stacks of comics lived in a large flat box in the attic. Today was the first time I'd ever seen these:
Indiana #1
Sunday, June 10, 2012
Grandeur
When I was young, my dad asked what I was thinking of becoming when I grew up. I said I wanted to be a librarian. I liked reading books very much, and thought I'd be good at leading story hour.
My Dad said if I wanted to be a librarian, I should be a librarian on a space station. This would have been the very early days of the shuttle program, and my dad had a book by a man who predicted we would soon have a space station near the moon. Space was where it was at, my dad said--I should specialize in something that would be needed--I should be part of the future.
In any case, I should reach for something higher than just being a librarian. And if the space thing didn't work out, I should plan to leave our small town, and small thinking behind.
My Dad said if I wanted to be a librarian, I should be a librarian on a space station. This would have been the very early days of the shuttle program, and my dad had a book by a man who predicted we would soon have a space station near the moon. Space was where it was at, my dad said--I should specialize in something that would be needed--I should be part of the future.
In any case, I should reach for something higher than just being a librarian. And if the space thing didn't work out, I should plan to leave our small town, and small thinking behind.
Saturday, December 03, 2011
My Dad, Myself, and the Art We Keep in the Attic
I wrote most of this post yesterday (my Dad's birthday) as I rode the bus to work...
My dad was a professor by trade, but also, throughout his life, a practicing artist. He taught sociology at the university, and he painted in the little room in the attic of our house.
He had reasons--rational or less so--for limiting his exposure as an artist. Early in my life, he was a newly tenured professor, worried that his colleagues might not think he was giving full attention to his academic duties if they knew of his artistic endeavors.
As time when on though, and certainly by his retirement, he began to seek more recognition and appreciation for his artistic work. He entered some local contests, and did well in a couple--although I don't believe he ever took the biggest prize, which discouraged him from doing more of the same. He had greeting cards printed from some of his works and he and my mom went to at least one festival where people sell such things at tables in long tents. I wasn't living nearby, but the reports of these endeavors seemed short-lived. After his death, my mom showed me a box of correspondence with various art galleries, written in the 90s, where he had sent query letters and copies of his work.
In the latest years of his life, my dad reverted to his earliest ambition, to to be a comic book artist. He created graphic novels, and sent excerpts out in blind submissions to publishers, but rarely heard back from them.
As far as I know, he never took an art class after college, though he read books and watched videos. He never went to an artist's retreat or a comic book convention.
And yet, I can see that even though he never said it in these words, he was secretly hoping to find a champion. Finding one can make all the difference in the life of an artist. It's someone who can take the burden of the world, find the right audience for your work, advertise, find patrons/financing, filter the myriad rejections.
In his lifetime, my father never found that, and while I sympathised, I also resented his unwillingness to be that person for himself. He was like an actress who rejects the undignified rounds of cattle call auditions and continuously self-hawking because she wants the myth of being discovered at a soda fountain. In the case of the letters to the galleries, I'm certain he foisted the administrative tedium (and the emotional vulnerability) off on my mom.
And because of his refusal to seek out others with like minded pursuits, the burden of being audience and encouragers fell to his family. With my every visit home from Los Angeles (the land where--especially from far away--anything seems possible) he'd ask me "how to break in" who to talk to, what avenues to pursue. I would protest, that as an underachieved artist myself, I had no easy answers, until, under continued pressure, I would tell him what I had heard and read about joining organizations, attending events and networking, asking for informational interviews, but he never followed up these tips. Nor did I expect him to, because implicit, and sometime explicit, in his questions about what to do, was the bigger question: Will you do it for me? He'd propose that I take his graphic novels and turn them into screenplays, and take them into the world.
In truth, I could not do it for him. I didn't have the connections, the know how. I didn't yet have the training to turn his stories--which were convoluted to my eyes--into screenplays, and I didn't have the passion for his work. One other things that the books say is, you have to write what you love, because that's what you will do best, and you will be living with your work--writing and re-writing and pitching, and rewriting--for a very long time. This is why novelist rarely write the story that someone gives him at party with the words "You know what you should write a book about?" I didn't love aviation art. I couldn't talk about historical events, or model numbers of planes. I didn't grow up during World War II and have it shape my entire life and worldview the way he did. He did have a story to tell that was only his, and although as my education continued, I did make more attempts to help him shape all this into a story, I couldn't. I can say that he was hard to talk to, that he tended to dissociate from his own life, and drift into spiraling details about other people. I can say there wasn't enough time, that in the end, he was older and tired, and not ready to put effort into a new discipline. Mostly I can say that I failed because I lacked will. And though I can justify it--I still feel it.
And at the end of his life, we--mostly my mother--were faced with an attic full of paintings and drawings...a life's work in a room of a house that will someday be sold as my mom downsizes. Would it end up at the Goodwill? In a dumpster? We parceled out as many as we could to family and friends. Then, at my mom's first yard sale after my father's death, someone was captivated by some toy airplanes he had used as models. We took him up in the attic, and he loved, and eventually bought, one of the paintings, then another. We let people have them who seemed to appreciate them, who said they would give them good homes.
Another year went by, and Mom was another yard sale. Not knowing what else to do with the remaining paintings, she put some on sale. And now a different man saw my Dad's paintings.
He loved them.
He's made a website. He wonders where the other paintings are, wants to do a retrospective, has held a small exhibition and plans another. This week, an older watercolor sold for two hundred dollars.
I don't know if my dad would have been happy with that sale price or not. But certainly he would have had to be happy with the effort that is finally being put forth on behalf of his work. He has found his audience--and his champion.
I don't know if there's a single lesson to take from all of this--but it's hard to shake this final detail: The man had come to yard sales at our house before. He had met my father, without knowing he was an artist.
It's hard to feel you are constantly undervaluing your own work, to put it out there, at the equivalent of a yard sale, to be so undignified or desperate, but maybe if my dad had laid himself out there, he would have gotten to know his champion when he was still alive.
My dad was a professor by trade, but also, throughout his life, a practicing artist. He taught sociology at the university, and he painted in the little room in the attic of our house.
He had reasons--rational or less so--for limiting his exposure as an artist. Early in my life, he was a newly tenured professor, worried that his colleagues might not think he was giving full attention to his academic duties if they knew of his artistic endeavors.
As time when on though, and certainly by his retirement, he began to seek more recognition and appreciation for his artistic work. He entered some local contests, and did well in a couple--although I don't believe he ever took the biggest prize, which discouraged him from doing more of the same. He had greeting cards printed from some of his works and he and my mom went to at least one festival where people sell such things at tables in long tents. I wasn't living nearby, but the reports of these endeavors seemed short-lived. After his death, my mom showed me a box of correspondence with various art galleries, written in the 90s, where he had sent query letters and copies of his work.
In the latest years of his life, my dad reverted to his earliest ambition, to to be a comic book artist. He created graphic novels, and sent excerpts out in blind submissions to publishers, but rarely heard back from them.
As far as I know, he never took an art class after college, though he read books and watched videos. He never went to an artist's retreat or a comic book convention.
And yet, I can see that even though he never said it in these words, he was secretly hoping to find a champion. Finding one can make all the difference in the life of an artist. It's someone who can take the burden of the world, find the right audience for your work, advertise, find patrons/financing, filter the myriad rejections.
In his lifetime, my father never found that, and while I sympathised, I also resented his unwillingness to be that person for himself. He was like an actress who rejects the undignified rounds of cattle call auditions and continuously self-hawking because she wants the myth of being discovered at a soda fountain. In the case of the letters to the galleries, I'm certain he foisted the administrative tedium (and the emotional vulnerability) off on my mom.
And because of his refusal to seek out others with like minded pursuits, the burden of being audience and encouragers fell to his family. With my every visit home from Los Angeles (the land where--especially from far away--anything seems possible) he'd ask me "how to break in" who to talk to, what avenues to pursue. I would protest, that as an underachieved artist myself, I had no easy answers, until, under continued pressure, I would tell him what I had heard and read about joining organizations, attending events and networking, asking for informational interviews, but he never followed up these tips. Nor did I expect him to, because implicit, and sometime explicit, in his questions about what to do, was the bigger question: Will you do it for me? He'd propose that I take his graphic novels and turn them into screenplays, and take them into the world.
In truth, I could not do it for him. I didn't have the connections, the know how. I didn't yet have the training to turn his stories--which were convoluted to my eyes--into screenplays, and I didn't have the passion for his work. One other things that the books say is, you have to write what you love, because that's what you will do best, and you will be living with your work--writing and re-writing and pitching, and rewriting--for a very long time. This is why novelist rarely write the story that someone gives him at party with the words "You know what you should write a book about?" I didn't love aviation art. I couldn't talk about historical events, or model numbers of planes. I didn't grow up during World War II and have it shape my entire life and worldview the way he did. He did have a story to tell that was only his, and although as my education continued, I did make more attempts to help him shape all this into a story, I couldn't. I can say that he was hard to talk to, that he tended to dissociate from his own life, and drift into spiraling details about other people. I can say there wasn't enough time, that in the end, he was older and tired, and not ready to put effort into a new discipline. Mostly I can say that I failed because I lacked will. And though I can justify it--I still feel it.
And at the end of his life, we--mostly my mother--were faced with an attic full of paintings and drawings...a life's work in a room of a house that will someday be sold as my mom downsizes. Would it end up at the Goodwill? In a dumpster? We parceled out as many as we could to family and friends. Then, at my mom's first yard sale after my father's death, someone was captivated by some toy airplanes he had used as models. We took him up in the attic, and he loved, and eventually bought, one of the paintings, then another. We let people have them who seemed to appreciate them, who said they would give them good homes.
Another year went by, and Mom was another yard sale. Not knowing what else to do with the remaining paintings, she put some on sale. And now a different man saw my Dad's paintings.
He loved them.
He's made a website. He wonders where the other paintings are, wants to do a retrospective, has held a small exhibition and plans another. This week, an older watercolor sold for two hundred dollars.
I don't know if my dad would have been happy with that sale price or not. But certainly he would have had to be happy with the effort that is finally being put forth on behalf of his work. He has found his audience--and his champion.
I don't know if there's a single lesson to take from all of this--but it's hard to shake this final detail: The man had come to yard sales at our house before. He had met my father, without knowing he was an artist.
It's hard to feel you are constantly undervaluing your own work, to put it out there, at the equivalent of a yard sale, to be so undignified or desperate, but maybe if my dad had laid himself out there, he would have gotten to know his champion when he was still alive.
Friday, December 02, 2011
Happy Birthday Dad!
My dad would have been eighty-two years old today. He lived to be just shy of eighty, and his whole life, he made art.
Monday, November 20, 2006
Foodie
My parents are coming tomorrow for Thanksgiving. Since we have a little kitchen I want to pre-cook some dinner items for the next few days. Right now I am simultaneously cooking, each at different stages-- Thai-pumpkin soup with coconut milk, Pasta Fazool, and Cranberry Sauce made with Rosemary, Ruby Port and Figs.
Paul, who is not a fan of wine or rosemary, says it smells like ass. I say, thanks for the love and support, hon. Although I must admit, that Italian, Thai, and Thanksgiving smells together are an interesting blend.
Paul, who is not a fan of wine or rosemary, says it smells like ass. I say, thanks for the love and support, hon. Although I must admit, that Italian, Thai, and Thanksgiving smells together are an interesting blend.
Thursday, July 06, 2006
Miscellaneous
The odd thing about keeping this blog is that after I miss a certain number of days I start to have some odd performance anxiety where what I say has to be doubly profound or entertaining to somehow compensate for the days that pass, then instead of just saying what’s on my mind, I wait to see if I will have something more profound or entertaining on my mind tomorrow or the next day. I suffer in contrast to some friends, who maintain more frequent posts while traveling, raising children, working and battling major illnesses. Huh.
Another deterrent, as I start to write on some days, is that I feel alternately that what I want to write is too frivolous (like what I think of the new Superman movie), too self absorbed (like me, my TV writing projects, my little mental demons, my obsession with regular digestion), or too serious or even a bit out of my jurisdiction. For instance, although my father’s health has for years been an open topic of discussion, my mother has always less likely to allow her health to cause ripples in the water. Thankfully she tends to enjoy good health. However, in the past week, she was diagnosed with emphysema. This was very unexpected, as she lives an active lifestyle, doesn’t smoke, and was not having trouble breathing. In terms of illness, our family has been a bit of a one hit wonder, and when something arises that isn’t cancer, I find myself at a loss. From my back pocket I can pull at least a dozen stories of people who have recovered from “fatal” cancers. I don’t have any stories about emphysema. Maybe some of you do?
Another deterrent, as I start to write on some days, is that I feel alternately that what I want to write is too frivolous (like what I think of the new Superman movie), too self absorbed (like me, my TV writing projects, my little mental demons, my obsession with regular digestion), or too serious or even a bit out of my jurisdiction. For instance, although my father’s health has for years been an open topic of discussion, my mother has always less likely to allow her health to cause ripples in the water. Thankfully she tends to enjoy good health. However, in the past week, she was diagnosed with emphysema. This was very unexpected, as she lives an active lifestyle, doesn’t smoke, and was not having trouble breathing. In terms of illness, our family has been a bit of a one hit wonder, and when something arises that isn’t cancer, I find myself at a loss. From my back pocket I can pull at least a dozen stories of people who have recovered from “fatal” cancers. I don’t have any stories about emphysema. Maybe some of you do?
Monday, April 17, 2006
Getting Better...
Another day at the hospital...The biggest news is probably that Dad's pathology report came back and was very favorable (for being cancer of course.)The tumor was stage one, which means it had not broken through the intestinal wall, nor was there any lymph involvement. It is very unlikely that any oncologist will advise further treatment after the surgery.
As to more mundane stuff, they removed the catheter in the morning, and Dad took two walks with a walker today. He's still in a fair amount of pain, and they haven't offered him any food yet...though he did get to have an orange Popsicle today. This in someways is the hard stretch, because you're in pain, and kind of bored, but in too much pain and a little too drugged to really be entertained, so time goes kind of slow. Feel free to call his room anytime. Mornings and evenings are especially good as he is less likely to have visitors and more likely to be feeling lonely. Some of my parents' Sarasota neighbors came this afternoon which was nice.
As to more mundane stuff, they removed the catheter in the morning, and Dad took two walks with a walker today. He's still in a fair amount of pain, and they haven't offered him any food yet...though he did get to have an orange Popsicle today. This in someways is the hard stretch, because you're in pain, and kind of bored, but in too much pain and a little too drugged to really be entertained, so time goes kind of slow. Feel free to call his room anytime. Mornings and evenings are especially good as he is less likely to have visitors and more likely to be feeling lonely. Some of my parents' Sarasota neighbors came this afternoon which was nice.
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